


Outcast

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-12 22:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: Newly recalled from the Wheel, Zoë learns the authorities have a worryingly close interest in her encounter with the Doctor. As does somebody else.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Outcast

**Author's Note:**

> From an [Ersatz Genremixer](http://www.seasip.info/Misc/genremixer.html) prompt by [thisbluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit):
>
>>   
Zoe / Missy - ostracised from society & reunions  


The intercom buzzer sounded. Zoë sat up in her chair and rubbed her eyes, annoyed to find that she'd been asleep. 

"Yes?" she asked. 

"You have an interview scheduled in five minutes, in room 4B," said the automated voice of the reminder service. 

Zoë checked the wall clock, and her memory. 

"No I don't," she protested. "There's nothing down for me except another physical tomorrow." 

"You have an interview scheduled in five minutes, in room 4B," the voice repeated. 

"Acknowledged," Zoë sighed. She'd never yet managed to get the system to admit when it had made an error, and it might even be right. Once or twice before now something had indeed been scheduled at short notice. 

She looked with dissatisfaction in the mirror and spent exactly three minutes tidying herself up, before setting off for the interview. She'd attended enough of the wretched things by now to know how long it would take to get to any location in the fortress. She hadn't been to this particular room before, but she'd passed its door often enough to have the timings down pat. 

Precisely on time, Zoë arrived in room 4B. By now she'd worked out some theoretical rules for the status of each room, depending on what furnishings were in it. If this one followed the rules its occupant was fairly important. It was dominated by a large conference table, apparently made of polished mahogany, and completely bare except for an artifical plant at its exact centre. At one end of the room was a desk, equally empty; at the other, three comfortable chairs surrounded a coffee table. A slowly-changing abstract picture hung on the wall behind the desk. It wasn't the most lavish room she'd been in — Room 12C had had a real plant and two abstract artworks — but it was quite close. 

"Ah, there you are," a Scottish-accented voice said from behind her. 

Zoë spun round. The door had closed soundlessly behind her, and standing beside it was a woman who certainly didn't resemble any of the endless stream of interviewers — _interrogators_ might be a better word — who'd examined her since her arrival here. None of them had worn clothes that looked nearly two centuries out of fashion, or a hat with wax cherries. And certainly none of them had been the sort of person to pose with a parasol. 

"Dead on time," the woman said. "Well, you aren't yet, but who knows how things'll turn out?" She strolled to the desk, seated herself behind it, and placed both her booted feet on its immaculate polished surface. "Right, then, first things first. How do you see your future, Zoë Heriot?" 

Zoë tried to work out what the question was driving at. "In the short term?" 

"Short or long. Size isn't important, darling. It's what you do with it that counts." She favoured Zoë with an exaggerated wink. 

"Well, I... I was expecting I'd have some leave once they'd finished debriefing me." 

"Not on the cards." The woman shook her head. "It's so far off the cards you couldn't find it with a Tarot pack. They're not letting you go. Next stop for you's the Village, and you stay there until they've got everything you know out of you." 

"I've told them everything I know!" Zoë said, and realised she was already going along with how this woman was framing the conversation: she'd said 'them' rather than 'you'. 

"Uh-uh. Only everything you _think_ you know. There's lots more, dearie, lots more. I don't know exactly which mechanic it was gave your brain that little bath, but the number of clues they left, they might as well have tattooed 'Tampered with by Time Lords' on your forehead and done with it." 

"Are you saying I've had memories suppressed? That's not possible. My Silenski implant's been double-checked—" 

"Not possible with current Earth technology. There's plenty of other ways to skin that cat." The woman rapped on the desk with her parasol. "Anyway, here's where you are. You can walk out of that door and take your chances with _them_ — or you can stay in here and take your chances with _me_. It won't be quiet, it won't be safe, and it won't be calm. But I'll tell you what it will be: the trip of a lifetime." She smirked, and added "However long that might be for you." 

Zoë tried to keep her rising tension under control. What the woman had said about 'them' — the people who'd brought her to this fortress as soon as she'd returned from the Wheel — rang absolutely true. Even before Zoë's encounter with the Doctor, she'd known she didn't fit properly into society, was only tolerated as long as she was useful to somebody. And from the moment she'd been recalled, she'd suspected that it was because someone else had a new and less pleasant use for her. 

"Really," the woman added, with a glint in her eye, "The question you need to ask yourself is: why settle for the lesser of two evils?" 

Zoë decided that she might as well try directness. "Everyone wants me for something," she said. "So what use am I to you?" 

"Oh, now, there's a question and a half," the woman said. "You're one of the Doctor's pets, of course. It's always fun to see how he reacts." Unhurriedly, she rose to her feet, walked round the desk, and took her seat on the near side of it, looking down at Zoë. "Or from what I hear, you're good with Cybermen. I can find a job for someone like that. And... in a way, we're two of a kind." 

"How?" Zoë asked. Whatever answer she'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. 

"We don't fit where they put us. Never have. Like square pegs hammered into round holes... now there's a thought." She raised her parasol and ran the tip of it down Zoë's cheek. "You want to feel things, don't you? Sweetheart, you won't believe the feelings I'll give you." 

"I can't trust you—" Zoë began. 

"Of course not, it'd be terribly boring if you could." As if reacting to a sound no-one else could hear, the woman gave the handle of her parasol an annoyed glance. "Well, it's too late now, anyway. They've found you missing and put the alarm out. Time we were on our way." She hopped nimbly from the desk. "Pilot ident. Ring around the roses and straight on till Old London Town. Send!" 

The room shuddered briefly. The abstract painting went abruptly blank, then changed to a view of the fortress, oddly angled and receding. The artificial plant rose out of the centre of the conference table, supported on a glowing crystal pillar. As it began rhythmically falling and rising, a muted, almost musical whirring noise filled the air.

"Now they'll see," the woman said, dancing around the room in ever-increasing circles. "Now everyone'll see." 

"Who _are_ you?" Zoë asked. 

"I'm Missy." The woman pulled out a compact mirror and took a quick look. "You don't remember me, do you? No, you wouldn't. And of course last time I had a moustache." She shook her head. "They say it does make a difference."


End file.
